


Another String to your Bow

by Oruka



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: And at the same time, Coulson is a geek, Fix-It, Gen, I blame the toasterverse, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oruka/pseuds/Oruka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Bows must be like wands,” says Coulson the geek, capping his pen for the final time. “They come to their rightful owner, in due course.”</i> </p><p>A series of short episodes, focusing on five bows which did Clint so great a service that they earned a nickname.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arwen's Perfume

**Author's Note:**

> First upload to AO3? Yes. First ever fic online? Also yes. I'm more than a little nervous.
> 
> NB - I'm apparently the worst kind of Marvel fan - a 'movie fan'. I did as much backstory research as I could handle with Marvel's convoluted and frequently retconned timelines, before throwing a lot of it out of the window and jumping in, sans chute. Beware non-canon/total fiction on all fronts.

Clint kept next to nothing when he fled from the circus. It was more a case of getting away than getting out, so he ran - took what he could carry and ran. A change of clothes shoved into an empty pillowcase along with all the cash he could muster, some of it stolen from the bastards who kept him. Enough dry food to last a few weeks, and a road map. Nothing more. He turned in the doorway to look at the mess he was leaving behind, and his eyes fell on the bow.

The costume was nothing special. In fact, he downright hated it. It was too tight, too flattering, and the cheap fabric itched to blazes.

The bow, on the other hand, was important.

He’d spotted it in a pawnbroker’s window when they had followed a Renaissance Faire into rural Maryland, and had made off with the ringmaster’s stupid, bum-toned dented Civil War bugle to barter for it. The price tag said it was of Blackfoot origin, which was possibly true, but more probably false. It didn’t matter, anyway, because to a twelve-year-old tumbler it was a little beauty, the hide quiver and eagle-fletched arrows some true craftsman’s masterpiece.

Either the bugle was a rare one or the pawnbroker must have liked him, but the bow was his. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just an old-fashioned wooden hunting bow, so short and stubby that it looked more like a cartoon bow than a real one. But it fired. He strung it with a nylon guitar string and then by God did it fire. With weeks of care, oiling it at night as he nursed each day’s bruises, keeping it out of damp and drafts, he revived the whip and spring it once had when it was newly turned.

He worked a little harder to earn a few coins more and managed to source a good set of proper bowstrings. Within a few months he was using it in the show, doing the full Wilhelm Tell routine, hitting multiple airborne targets, firing blindfold and snagging Barney’s sleeves against the wheel of death. He used it for three-and-a-half years. He trusted it more than any human he’d known. The ringmaster very nearly forgave him for trading away his bugle - praise indeed from the mean old git.

 

Barney had left the day before, away to join the army. Clint had run after him, but missed the pickup by minutes, and had sat down on the kerb and sobbed to himself before finally steeling his nerve and going home to pack. The last of the lights blinked out in the camp, leaving the yellow glow from the city to discolour the whole park, casting eerie, dark shadows of all the wrong shapes and sizes. The caravan door was wide open, the cool night air washing in, coaxing him out.

Standing in the doorway, Clint looked over at the bow and her quiver, propped up in the corner, wrapped in the cleanest velvet he could find. That bow had been his meal ticket. He loved it. It had no real value; what it really held was his own worth _._

He couldn’t leave her behind.

 

That night, his caravan went up in flames, but nobody came looking for him.

 

 

He’d named the bow Arwen, after the elf with simple beauty, who carried a short guy to safety in a long, sweeping epic of a film he’d once seen, watching it over Phil’s shoulder on a long-haul flight to Cologne.

Now, years later, she sits in her cradle on the wall of Coulson’s office, retired and unstrung, carefully free of dust and dents, and so at home that she doesn’t look out of place until somebody mentions Coulson's peculiar trophy.

Arwen is even more of a relic these days and despite being long out of action, Clint still dotes over her, spending the long, dark hours as he waits for Coulson to finish his overtime perched on the arm of the office sofa, Natasha casually leaning against his knee, watching with veiled interest and more than a little jealousy as he dusts and oils and buffs the old yew, runs his thumbs over the fine, straight grain and the intricate, stylised carving of a hawk, just above the grip. He calls the bow beautiful, and smiles.

“Bows must be like wands,” says Coulson the geek, capping his pen for the final time. “They come to their rightful owner, in due course.”

Clint laughs, lovingly returning Arwen to her cradle and combing strong fingers through Natasha’s hair instead, marking her with the dusty scent of boiled linseed oil, the same musk Coulson wears round his neck and his shoulders; They wear it with pride, Arwen’s perfume, the invisible sign that reads:

_Here is some rare thing, precious to Clinton Francis Barton. Here is something too precious to ever let go._


	2. The Evolution and Life Cycle of the Common-or-Garden Figwit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They had tried, at first, they had **really** tried, to get Clint to switch to firearms._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I merrily play with Marvel continuity like it's made of lego and feel absolutely no remorse over it.

They had tried, at first, they had _really_ tried, to get Clint to switch to firearms.

At SHIELD’s expense he was presented with every make and model of handgun, all the newest and best rifles, tripods and scopes. It was patiently explained before every mission that guns and bullets weren’t so cumbersome, were more easily sourced, were just as effective, but he would put his boots on the table and claim, quite correctly, that funding his preference was a very small price to pay to ensure silence and a guaranteed hit, no evidence but the unmarked arrow, and no chance of ricochet. In short, perfection. Even Fury approved of that; he had to admire a man whose efficiency and talent outstripped the famous, formidable Gibbs, even if his smart mouth seemed to operate purely to piss Fury off.

But still, the various Agents-in-charge would have none of it, and insisted that he must use a gun, even sinking so low as to wheedle and beg and deliberately, dangerously get on his nerves until he snatched up the M40 out of sheer spite and stalked off to his nest in a huff. Safe and sound in their bunker, far away from the scene, the agents would sip at what they thought was good coffee and laugh at the newbie Coulson, the handler who spoiled his operative far too much, and applaud themselves for beating down Barton’s famously bolshy attitude.

Hours later, when the order to fire was given, the mark dropped like a stone, a black arrow through his heart.

Coulson could barely contain his wry smile as the once-smug agents sat in awe, panicking internally as they witnessed, as they always did, the deadly combination of Barton’s skill and passionate insubordination. The words that Coulson repeated after every debriefing may have said “Do that again and I’ll have you suspended” but what he meant, and what Clint clearly heard in his quick, shallow voice was “Do that again, God it was beautiful.”

 

The standard-issue SHIELD bow was a boring, down-to-earth, but effective enough weapon. When Clint was first sent out on operations, the only bow SHIELD had, or at least the only one they would let him play with, was a slightly obsolete recurve, built more for sport than for this line of work. It came snugly packed in a long steel flight-case, with no more than a half-dozen lacquered aluminium shafts, tipped at one end with surgical steel and at the other with a tatty plastic fletching. They were plain, they were of little value, and each component of every item had an impossibly long serial code, which Clint was required to memorise before they would let him have even this pitiful model to play with. Next to Arwen, these production-line items seemed awkward and anonymous, so at Coulson the geek’s suggestion, the model was nicknamed the Figwit bow.

Despite its flaws, the Figwit model was approved for standard issue, Fury finally folding after a three-point verbal onslaught from Coulson, Barton, and Hill which had lasted, according to Agent Sitwell, almost a whole nine hours straight. A memo from Hill went round a few days later, ordering that the ‘Archery Issue’ never be mentioned in Fury’s presence again, as he had given up the fight only when he bit his tongue, shouting too hard. It was closely followed by a more strongly-worded one from Fury, giving everyone with a SHIELD logo on their shirt one free pass to punch Barton in the throat.

To make it more effective, the Figwit Recurve was remodelled over and over, the R&D team working closely with Clint to improve its resilience, weight, grip, and range. They even made prototypes for a compound version, with a pull of such strength that it even surprised Clint, who believed himself a recurve man to the core. At Coulson’s request, work began on the trick arrows which would one day make Hawkeye a fearsome man to upset. The bow became better and better, finally reaching a point where it stopped being the unwanted stepchild and became the quiet superstar in a lineup of commonplace guns, every unit hoping they would get to see it in action one day.

 

It was during field training that a faulty sonic arrow took out Clint's previously perfect hearing. It shattered with a piercing screech as he released it from the string, disrupting all the electrics in a four hundred yard radius, frying the comm he had lodged in his ear, and knocking Clint out so hard that he looked, at first sight, to be totally dead.

He slept for forty-four hours before an impatient Coulson had woken him with a pinch to the sole of his foot, presented him with a clipboard and the smile that always preceded bad news.

 _You are in PEGASUS’ Medical wing. We believe your hearing is irreparably damaged,_ the clipboard said. _R &D send their apologies._

Shame he’d never learned to lip-read. He’d better fix that, then. He looked up at Coulson.

“Here to retire me, sir?”

“No.”

“Sick leave?”

“Only if you ask nicely.” He could just about hear him, fuzzy and quiet, and too far away.

“I want to keep working, sir. I’ll get better.”

“Good. We have a long-term assignment coming up in Russia, and I want you to go in as Plan B.”

“Love me some Britpop,” Clint grinned, but shook his head. He didn’t do undercover. Coulson slapped the folder marked ACTIVE down on the thin mattress and perched on the high stool at Clint’s bedside.

“Russia, huh?”

“Russia.”

“Only if you’ll have R&D roll out the new compound Figwit, and get me a string that won’t snap below zero.”

“Consider it done.” Coulson wrote down the order as, reinvigorated, Clint shuffled to get himself sitting upright, spreading the folder across his knees.

“So tell me about the job. Wait-”

Coulson stopped as he took in a breath to begin, holding it as Clint reached out and reeled him in by the tie.

“You’ll have to speak close to my ear. _Sir_.”

“- _Barton. You do that again and-_ ”

“-And whisper. This is confidential, right?”

Right. And it wasn’t inappropriate proximity if secrecy was the watchword. Phil moved to sit on the bed, and heads together, they went through the papers. The next day, their plane set off for Moscow, to land at midnight.

 

 

The operation was going well, Coulson thought. It was a slow burn, waiting on four undercover agents besides Clint to gather enough evidence to justify what they’d come here to do. 

But then, unexpectedly, there was a change in the tide.

Every time he came back after trailing the mark, Clint would air his suspicions on her motivation. He’d followed her back to a hotel five times, where he’d been treated to the sight of nineteen other girls, all of an age, and all stunningly beautiful, all checking in at the very same time. He followed a different one when they emerged, and saw in her the exact same mannerisms as she flirted with her own mark; three other girls all performed the same way.

“There’s more than one spy girl in Moscow, Barton. Don’t tell me this is news to you.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” It had nagged at him from the start. “It’s not just another spy, it’s like watching a twin. Everything they do is done exactly the same way. Something’s not right with her - any of them - like her mind has been tampered with. But whatever it is, it’s buried so deep she doesn’t know it herself.”

Coulson folded his arms, frowning. “I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of enough time to test your theory, Barton. We have enough evidence. She is the target and she needs to be neutralised. Go and do your job.”

“There’s more than one Widow, I’ll bet my life on it. If she’s neutralised and we don’t find out who’s commanding her, another girl will just take her place.”

“Prove it.”

 

Coulson would come to regret those words. The next day, the target vanished, Clint took his bow, and never came home to roost. The day after that, a glamorous blonde picked up exactly where the redhead had left off. SHIELD went home in disgrace.

A few weeks later, An exhausted, frustrated Agent Coulson sank into his office chair in Washington, running his hands over his face again and calming himself as best he could. Nobody knew if he’d gone off the reservation or been made and terminated without any trace, but for Barton’s disappearing act, he’d been expecting demotion and Fury had not disappointed him. His clearance was back down to Level Three again, below Sitwell, not even a field agent now. He filed his last report, locked it away, and cleared the room of all evidence that he had ever been there, heading out to look for some late-night whisky to drown this disaster in.

The barman had clearly seen him coming. A regular here, two fingers of scotch had appeared on the bar before he had made it across the threshold. He quickly made the offering disappear and held up his hand for another.

With it came a little surprise. A hand-written letter, addressed to _The Unsmiling Suit, two fingers, 8:30 Friday night_ , care of the bar he was sitting in. It bore a postmark and stamp from Helsinki. He stared at it, hating it, willing it to curl up and burn itself to dust. Bloody Barton.

 

_Phil,_

_I’m sorry for skipping out on you last week, but as you know, I had a personal issue that needed dealing with. I’m going to stay with little cousin Nala until she’s stable. Maybe when she’s feeling better, we can come and visit? I’m sure you’d love to meet her, you’d make a great Trivial Pursuit team. Or maybe charades, now my hearing’s on the blink._

_I was right about her grandfather, too, he does need taking care of. I’d be more than happy to do it but I don’t think he likes me very much. Nala said she’d do it, if I go with her to entertain the nurses. Looks like we’re holidaying in Volvograd this year after all. I’ll send you a postcard._

_If we don’t hear or see from you before, we’re coming over for Cap’s big birthday bash in 2009. I know it’s a few years away but it’ll be her 21st that year (so young, so full of hope!) so I was hoping to throw her a welcoming party at that quiet Italian place, Café Luna on P Street. I’m sure you can have a word with the landlord, have him lay on something special, right?_

_Please give my kindest regards to Nate and Mary, tell them I'll make sure Figgy keeps in good shape; and keep an eye out for that Stark, I hear he’s up to no good._

_Phil,_

_I’ll miss you._

_Francis._

__

He’d drawn a little bird with a bow and arrow at the bottom of the page. Phil drank and read the letter through again and again, until he was so rolling drunk that he couldn’t focus on the words. He folded it with numb fingers, slipped it into his inside breast pocket and sat for a while with his hand pressed over it.

It smelled very faintly of linseed oil. Stupid, blasted Barton.

 

***

 

Coulson had a lunchtime reservation on the Fourth of July, 2009. It was a nice little place, so far out of the way that nobody knew where it was unless they’d been there before. The wine list was top notch, the pasta perfect, the vegetables fresh and seasonal and all prepared with care and reverence. The customers and staff were so close, too, that it felt rather like sitting in at someone’s dinner party. For the Fourth of July celebrations, the proud Italian-born maître d’ had joined the spirit and hung out the stars and stripes awning over the door, even though it had rained all week and wasn’t likely to give up for Independence Day’s sake.

“For one day only,” he chuckled as he showed Coulson to his table for three, up against the glass front that looked out on the patio. “Tomorrow is burgundy again. My favourite colour, eh, the colour of a fine, matured wine.”

“Precisely,” Phil smiled, and took his seat.

 

A few minutes later, a silver-grey suit slid into his peripheral vision. He stood and turned to face the man who wore it, who had, if anything, grown even broader since they had last met. His dark grey eyes matched his jacket beautifully, a small detail that Coulson catalogued, to use again later. Over one shoulder he carried a long, narrow case, and on the other side he held the hand of a slender, titian-haired beauty.

“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Phil. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're still here _again?_ You deserve an award or something. ♡  
>  As always, please alert me to typos and errors, inaccurate bow tech, peculiar use of Britspeak, and any other nitpicky things that rankle. I won't promise I'll change anything, but it's a pleasure to learn and get feedback. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> More to come, all has been planned. Please alert me to typos and errors, and wherever I've used my native British English, if you think there's a better American term. Thanks for reading!  
> ＊ Thanks to **luminare_ardua** for kindly correcting my LOTR canon.  
>  ＊ Thanks to **delle** for catching a horribly mutated sentence before it infected the flock. I'm extremely grateful! ♡


End file.
